


Casual

by withthepilot



Category: Actor RPF, Star Trek RPF, White Collar RPF
Genre: Crossover Pairing, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-27
Updated: 2011-01-27
Packaged: 2017-10-15 03:24:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/withthepilot/pseuds/withthepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It seems too good to be true, and then it is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casual

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starsandgraces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/gifts).



> You can blame and/or thank starsandgraces for this. She put the very pretty idea in my head and this is dedicated to her. I apologize for going light on the porn. ;D Based on a very small amount of canon, a great deal of facts made up and probably not true. Mostly takes place after _Off Centre_ , so '02, '03, thereabouts.

He isn't quite prepared for it. He's got a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he's trying to pass it off on someone as quickly as possible because his girlfriend will _kill_ him if he comes home reeking of smoke. Just one more puff, John thinks, taking a quick drag before he hands it off to the closest person. He realizes a moment later that the person is Zach Quinto, who's all giggly and punch-drunk off whatever's in the actual punch.

"John, John," he says, right before he sucks on the filter obscenely. "Did you meet my friend? You gotta meet him."

And then he turns his head because, hell, that seems like the thing to do, and there's this fucking _Ken doll_ standing there, with artfully ruffled hair and crisp blue eyes, looking like a living, breathing mannequin. John has to force himself not to flinch in the face of such striking male beauty.

It's ridiculous. It's fucking _preposterous_ , is what it is.

"John, right? I've heard so much about you." the guy says. He holds out his hand. "I'm Matt."

Matt? So ordinary. It should be Brad or Chad or Skip or some shit. John's willing to bet dollars to donuts that the guy owns a yacht. No, this guy straight-up owns a villa in France. John shakes his hand, watches as Zach passes the cigarette over. The filter that once touched John's lips slides between Matt's, and it looks so much better—so much _cooler_ there than it probably ever did in John's possession.

"Right," he says, a few minutes too late. Zach reaches over and shakes Matt's shoulder.

"Matt, fuck, John is hilarious. He's _hilarious_ , man!"

At least Matt has the decency to laugh awkwardly, to _feel_ awkward; to be an actual human being. He pats Zach's hand, assures him he believes him. John realizes he's staring at Matt's mouth and starts looking at the aquarium instead. It might be Matt's aquarium; he doesn't know whose place this is.

*

Okay, so it's Matt's aquarium. Just like this is probably Matt's bathroom and—oh, hey, that's Matt's hand down his pants. And John should really go home, but he had some of that punch, _fuck_ , and Matt smells as incredible as he looks, dropping kisses all over John's neck and crowding him against the sink. John's had three more drinks and five cigarettes since they first shook hands and he probably smells awful, but Matt seems to be getting off on _something_. Because, yeah, that's his dick, rubbing against John's hip.

John spares a passing thought for his girlfriend until Matt's thumb glides over the slick tip of his cock. He reaches a hand out to reciprocate and but a synapse fires too soon and he ends up flinging his arm behind him, knocking a bottle of liquid soap off the sink's edge.

"Zeke was right," Matt murmurs, huffing a laugh against the crook of John's neck. "You _are_ funny."

"Hilarious," John corrects him. He licks a bead of sweat from his upper lip. "'Zeke'?"

Matt grins and shifts down to his knees. "Old college nickname. You should call him that. He hates it."

"I'll keep it—ahhh—in mind."

He half-wonders if he's going to end up slipping and falling on spilled soap at some point during this encounter, but then he sees Matt make a grab for the bottle, setting it upright again. John sighs, thumbs the curve of Matt's ear, and sinks a little further into his open mouth.

*

He sucks at lying, so he and his girlfriend break up the next day. Not that he expects Matt to call. Which turns out to be good, because he doesn't.

He feels slightly jilted for about four days, before he remembers that he never actually gave Matt his number.

*

Numbers exchanged or not, Matt seems to have no trouble finding John in a coffee shop two weeks later. He sits down at the table without preamble, slapping his palms down on the table, and John nearly chokes on his almond tartlet.

"So," Matt says, blue eyes gleaming. "You break up with your girlfriend yet?"

John coughs and tries to compose himself, wiping the crumbs from his chin. "Zach told you I had a girlfriend?"

"I could smell it on you. And I don't just mean your guilty conscience. Perfume—that stuff lingers." He sips his coffee, rubs his squared chin thoughtfully. "Sunflowers, right? Elizabeth Arden?"

"Maybe," John answers, distracted. "I'm not sure."

"Old news, anyway," Matt says. He stands again swiftly. "So let's go."

And, well, there's no reason not to follow him.

*

The thing about Matt, which John learns very quickly, is that he doesn't play fair. He's already fucked John way beyond any semblance of coherence and now he's shoving his pretty face into John's twitching asshole, a hand on his lower back to keep him squarely in the wet spot. John can feel every tremor of his thighs, along with every one of the taste buds on Matt's probing tongue. He feels incredibly loose, cracked open. John lies there and takes it until he glances back and sees that Matt is jacking himself off; he starts grinding against that damned wet spot and it's somewhere between horribly uncomfortable and fucking amazing. Whatever that strange sensation is, it makes him come a second time, moaning Matt's name into the pillow. Matt's pillow.

Next thing he knows, he's being steered away from the damp sheets and back against Matt's hairless chest. Seriously, it's as smooth as John's own, and that's saying something. John would bet that Matt waxes, though. He hears a faint chuckle behind him and realizes he's made that observation aloud.

"Yeah, guilty," Matt says, his lips skimming over John's nape. "It's in my contract."

"Contract?" John repeats dumbly. Then he remembers. "Oh, right... _The Young and the Restless_."

" _Guiding Light_."

"Man, does it matter?"

"Fuck off. It's a living." Matt nips his shoulder and John smothers a smile into the hand tucked under his cheek. "You got anything good coming up?"

He shrugs. "Another _American Pie_ movie. Token Asian shit. Got this script for a stoner movie... Seems pretty funny."

"Stoner movie, huh? Sounds like Oscar bait to me."

The cigarettes are all the way on the other side of the room, so Matt slides away to get up and fetch them. John watches—admires, really—as he saunters to the desk in the corner and lights up, seemingly unaware of his own nudity. Or maybe all too aware. Matt leans back against the chair and smokes, looking back at John with hooded eyes. John swallows. He holds out his hand.

"Toss me the pack."

"No way. No smoking in my bed."

John groans and rubs both of his hands over his face. "Fuck you. Taunting me with your...your cigarettes and your manly allure."

"Will you come back?" Matt asks. He looks so sincere that it's almost embarrassing to witness. He gestures with the cigarette, self-consciously. "Back here, I mean. To do this again."

"I was planning on it. Now that I'm sober enough to remember where you live and how to get here."

"Well, in that case."

Matt throws the cigarettes to John. The pack hits him in the shoulder and he slumps back, pretending to be wounded, howling at the ceiling until Matt has no choice but to put out the cigarette, climb onto the bed and wrestle with him.

*

Matt keeps inviting him over. Texts, planned run-ins at the coffee shop. John has no idea _why_ Matt keeps inviting him, but he does. So John goes. He gives the fish in the aquarium names because Matt hasn't named any of them and that just seems off.

"They eat each other half the time anyway," Matt says. He pads barefoot into the kitchen and drinks milk straight from the carton. "I figure it's better not to get attached."

John watches Matt, wondering how he can be so clichéd yet so graceful at the same time. Then he goes back to Lenny, Frankie, and My Cousin Finny.

*

He's more surprised than he should be when he finds out that Zach and Matt fucked in college. It doesn't help that he has a mouth full of scrambled eggs when Zach tells him.

"Jesus. I could have choked and died," he mutters, wiping his mouth. Zach shrugs apologetically.

"I figured you knew."

"I could have guessed, but I didn't know for _sure_ ," John counters. Then he starts drinking his soda obsessively, gulping it down, because he can't ask what he really wants to ask, namely _Why aren't you fucking now?_ and _Is there something wrong with him?_ and _Oh, god, there's something wrong with him, isn't there, he's a serial killer, he's never been to a dentist, fucking TELL ME._

"He's probably a lot better in bed now," Zach says. He eats a piece of omelet like the nonchalant asshole that he is. "Anyway, it's great that you like him. Fair warning, though—he tends to keep things pretty casual."

"Well, that's okay," John says, putting his drink down. And it is. He can handle casual.

Even if, you know, he really likes the guy.

Zach smiles at him. "Well, as long as you're cool with it. Some people aren't into that."

John stays quiet for a while, zoning out before he realizes that he's pushing the dregs of his food around his plate. "You know he doesn't have names for his fish?" he blurts out, not looking up. "I mean, they're his pets. How weird is that?"

"Kinda weird. But fish always die really quickly anyway."

He nods and squashes his home fries under the tongs of his fork. "Or eat each other."

*

He ends up scoring the part in the stoner movie. The surprisingly funny, surprisingly _smart_ stoner movie. Which leads to a pretty devastating congratulatory blowjob on the floor of Matt's living room, mere feet away from the aquarium.

Which means he has to go to Ontario to film it.

"It's cool," Matt says. He scoots closer on the carpet and kisses the inside of John's elbow. "Have an amazing time. Don't worry; I won't be sitting here and pining after you."

Which...huh. Ouch.

"I wouldn't mind if you pined a little," John says. He moves to sit up but Matt just grins and slings an arm over his middle, pulling him back down.

"Well, all right. Just a little."

"Glad I could talk you into it."

*

The filming goes great. Kal is amazing, Neil Patrick Harris ( _what_ , holy crap) is amazing. John spends most of his time resisting the urge to pinch himself. This is going to be his big break; he can feel it.

He doesn't think that much about Matt. Whether that's natural or because he won't let himself do it, he isn't sure. What he does know is that Matt isn't thinking about _him_ , if the complete lack of contact is any indication.

But that's how Matt is. Casual. Casually beautiful, brimming over with casual elegance, and a big proponent and practitioner of casual sex.

John still thinks of Matt's perfect smile and mannequin face when he jacks off, though, because he couldn't get the image of him out of his head if he tried.

But it's okay. Because shooting ends and there's a big wrap party and John meets this startlingly attractive woman who keeps up with his banter and says all this smart shit that John's never considered and laughs like it's her _job_. And she's not carved from marble, bleached and waxed from head to toe, or imbued with all the effortless grace on Earth—she snorts Sprite and vodka up her nose at one point when Kal tells a dirty joke and fuck, is it cute—but she's real and fascinating and so naturally pretty that it makes John's chest hurt.

When the party winds down, he asks her to go out with him. She turns him down cold. Smart woman.

But she does give him her number.

*

"Wow, hey, John," Matt says, a bit breathlessly. He sounds surprised to hear from him. "How's the movie going?"

"Great. We just finished." He chews on his lip, fingers the slip of paper with Kerri's number on it. Truth be told, he's already memorized it. "Look, I just wanted to say that when I get back, I, um... I can't. Anymore. Can't, um...keep doing this with you."

There are a few awkward moments of silence that remind John of the night they met, when Matt had the decency to be embarrassed about something. He wonders if he's embarrassing Matt right now—if he even has the ability to do that.

"So...you met someone!" Matt suddenly says. He sounds so cheerful that John has a hard time believing it's real. "Is that it?"

"Yeah...kind of. I mean, she's testing out the waters with me, seeing if she really feels like slumming it, but, y'know." He laughs quietly, runs a hand over his face. Hates every word coming out of his mouth.

"Well, to be honest, I always had you pegged as the marriage and kids type," Matt says. "I just never said anything because I wanted you to keep slumming it with _me_."

"Oh, come on," John answers, a little too quickly. He doesn't want to go down this road. He _can't_ , not now. "I just...I wanted to say I'm sorry. That's all."

"You don't have to be," Matt says. And what kills John the most is that he sounds like he means it.

He fumbles mentally for something to say in return and comes up empty. He's about to call it quits and just bid Matt goodbye when—

"So, hey. Frankie and Lenny say hi."

"You kept the names?" John asks. He sits down in the nearest chair, tucks his knuckles against the corner of his mouth. "What happened to My Cousin Finny?"

Matt laughs. It's a sad sound. "I overfed him."

*

It occurs to him later that it was the first time he and Matt ever spoke on the phone.

*

After that, time passes. And most of it is pretty glorious. He makes a sequel to the smart stoner movie. He convinces that brilliant woman to marry him. And he gets to put on a Starfleet uniform, wield a big, shiny, fuck-off weapon and be Lieutenant Hikaru _fucking_ Sulu.

Zach, who's gone from providing a bit part on John's WB sitcom to starring in a blockbuster sci-fi/action movie in which John has about thirty minutes of screen time, is nice enough not to bring up Matt. Ever.

So it throws John off guard when he spots Matt at one of Zach's house parties.

Apparently, Zach's good will doesn't extend to social gatherings.

"Holy shit, John Cho," he hears. Just like old times, he turns toward the voice because it seems like the thing to do. "Looking good. Hey, I hear you're in a big movie with Zeke. Can't wait to see it."

And it's terrible—unfair, really, because John can't _not_ look at Matt. He's somehow gotten more gorgeous with age. There's a hint of stubble lining his jaw and he just looks _sharp_ , standing there in pressed trousers and a vest over his button-down, like it's no big deal. Like he's got a tailor on call at any hour of the day. He clasps John's shoulder and squeezes gently. It takes some effort on John's part to resist sinking down to his knees on instinct.

John smiles— _forces_ himself to smile so he quits gaping like a fucking fish (probably Lenny, if he's still around) over the return of his Ken Doll. He's about to reply when Matt pulls him close and leans in to whisper in his ear, warm and inviting.

"Is that your wife?"

He blinks and adjusts his vision so he can see where Matt is looking. And, yes, there's Kerri on the other side of the room, chatting with Simon and Zoe and looking ten kinds of radiant. When she turns and waves, John waves back, now smiling wide and dumb, all on his own merit. Matt chuckles lowly in his ear.

"You made the right choice," he whispers.

He moves to stand in front of John, blocking his line of sight. Then, no one else can see as Matt trails his fingers slowly down the path of John's shirt, lightly skimming all the rounded buttons. For a few seconds, John holds his breath, his mind cataloguing a flurry of random images all at once: his hands in Matt's scruffy hair, a porcelain sink's edge digging into his back, cigarette smoke wafting his way from across a sunny room.

Then that soft touch withdraws.

"Call me, yeah?" Matt murmurs. He drinks from his beer as he moves past, walks away. "Heartbreaker," he adds.

John ducks his head, laughs it off as Chris approaches to refill his drink, bottle of red in hand. "Yeah, okay," he says.

They both know he won't. Matt looks pleased all the same.


End file.
